Once upon a time, in a realm where magic flowed like a gentle river, there dwelt a peculiar little witch named Wanda. She inhabited a humble, crooked cottage on the outskirts of a medieval town, her presence barely noticed by the townsfolk. Life was tranquil for her, as she meticulously brewed herbal potions, tended to her garden, and cared for her beloved black cat, Midnight.
Wanda was not like other witches one might hear about from villagers’ fearful tales. She was kind, gentle, and deeply attuned to the world around her. The flowers leaned closer to her as she walked by, eager for her touch. The trees whispered their secrets in the breeze, all too happy to share their wisdom. But alas, the people of the town remained oblivious, viewing her only through the lens of superstition and fear.
One fateful winter, a terrible misfortune struck the town. A harrowing illness swept through, claiming the strength of the young and old alike. Crops wilted in the fields, and an ominous shadow fell over every hearth. The townsfolk hastily convened, and in their panic, their eyes fell upon the crooked cottage on the edge of the woods. “It can only be the work of that witch!” they cried in outrage. “She has cursed our crops! She has cursed our children!”
The angry mob, fueled by desperation, marched toward Wanda’s quaint home. They hurled rocks at her windows and banged on her door. But Wanda, with her tender heart, simply opened it and regarded them calmly. “How may I assist you?” she inquired with a gentle smile.
Yet, the townsfolk, lost in their fury, would not listen. They seized her, dragging her bound hands and feet into the heart of the town. They condemned her to the stocks, pelted her with vegetables, and called her every vile name they could conjure. But even there, she kept her eyes bright and her spirit unbroken.
Though her heart ached at their hatred, Wanda knew deep within her soul that she must not retaliate. Instead, she focused her healing energy and whispered spells of protection over the ill. At night, when the moon shone brilliantly above, she conjured forth potions and remedies, delivering them surreptitiously, but lovingly, to those who needed them most. She cleansed their water, revived their livestock, and whispered words of comfort to suffering parents.
Days turned into weeks, and finally, the swift current of misfortune began to ease. The crops flourished once more, the sick regained their strength, and laughter returned to the narrow streets and bustling markets. Yet still, the townsfolk remained unaware of Wanda’s kindness. They jeered at her and held spirited discussions about how to manage her evil powers. Summer passed into autumn, and the unfortunate winter returned, with it falling upon the poor, cruelly heavy and unrelenting.
This time, it was not just the people but the very earth that cried out for relief. Rains pelted down day after day, well after wells were already overflowing, flooding homes and streets. The fragile bridges gave way, cutting off food supplies from nearby villages. Darkness descended upon the town as villagers huddled together in fear and despair.
“Murderer!” they shouted at each other.
Finally, in their desperation, they turned their eyes again to Wanda, the witch they had tortured and scorned. “It must be her magic that stirred this tempest!” they screamed, their eyes wild with terror.
Yet, instead of calling for her punishment this time, they cried instead, “She is our only hope! Break down her door and make her use her magic to save us!”
As the frightened crowd gathered before her door, Wanda quietly stepped out. Midnight purred intimately around her legs, and the sun blazed in the blue sky behind her, a breathtaking contrast to the chaos around her. After weeks in the stocks and with such a wet winter, her cloak was threadbare, and her hair was tangled in the most unfortunate ways.
When she saw the truth of the situation, she smiled sweetly. “You have at last come to seek my help?”
The townsfolk, their spirits dampened more than their clothes, simply hung their heads. Buzzing about their good sense and conscience, withered like the newly fallen leaves all around them.
Wanda raised her arms, chanting gently the soft words of a spell of magic so ancient only the winds of time had heard it sung, “O storm clouds, tend your rains; cease this wailing, stop these pains!” And at once, as if heaven understood their lament, the rain diminished to a gentle sprinkle, and the bright sun shone down. Like flowers in bloom, spirits rose, hearts beat faster, and hope met despair in the twinkling of an eye.
No sooner had she crossed the threshold of her door, than a message came that a bridge had been washed away carrying food supplies. The well in the middle of town bubbled up and overflowed slips about to fall right over the stones. Sick people rapidly gained their strength; children grew so lively, one nearly soared into the tree over everyone’s heads. So thankful were the townsfolk, after this wonderful miracle, that they gathered together, asking others to join them to plan a splendid festival, to banish memories of their dark fears and inflictions.
They hung garlands and brightly-colored rags everywhere, and purchased banquet food and more food, climbing the hills for berries, fishing long hours at the river, and still leaving half for the witch. When everything was as fair as the sunset on the river, the bells chimed merrily for a great, fabulous celebration, one the townsfolk swore never would be forgotten.
“And where is that dear Wanda?” everyone cried, looking about.
Alas! At first, only the young people awaited her on the fine green grass, beside a little merry mound of boughs and moss. And they charitably kindled a great blazing bonfire beside it, carried twinkle lanterns and great baskets of food and the choicest drinks, and scintillated scales and instruments of mirth—and sang songs fit to scare away sadness, and danced faster than favors blown from tree to tree, even from their bonfire to the smouldering campfires the villagers had made.
“If only dear Wanda were here!” they said again.
But, dear Wanda never came! Through the still hours of the following day the townsfolk repaired theirs just as early to the ridge of the trees opposite the witch’s cottage, and, wondering thither, beheld for the first time the words—The Kindhearted Witch—right over her garden gate, and all the flowers of every distinguished kind that had traveled from happy, friendly lands, the whole world over, both above land and below the sea.
Was she a fairy after all? They asked. They knew all fairies despised and teased mortals, all the little, naughty brown elves that laughed and danced out of the sunset told them so.
But on the second day, the same time in the evening, when they all sat crossed-legged beneath a bewitching brown tree on the edge of a beautiful, white, laughing frost sea, the same gentle smile over her face, her black cat in her arms, dear Wanda quietly arrived without comment or reason deigning to accept as greeting respectfully, the bill of fare they spread at her feet, tea made of dew gathered on the larch trees under the eaves of the Milky Way. Every changing color that rose, the moment she crossed the threshold of her garden gate to come sent her happy through the ceremonial streets of the friendly town, to all her successful and willing friends.
“I am sorry I am so late,” she confessed; “for the good fairies of a distant land came to help me, when I had nearly finished mending nets and frames, and teasing feet and fingers of innumerous little mortals; and even traversed thousand of waves to give me each additional food fit for your festive reveling region.”
“But you haven’t our news yet!” the eager company exclaimed.
“Is it good or is it bad?” inquired Wanda.
“Tell her to buckle her seat-belt to be prepared!” cried the youth, amused; “at least, we don’t need the heavy disorders the centenarians in her magic were deafened to.”
But all things must end; and still human beings were always refreshed in body, mind, and spirit, when any little bit of life was seen to be spent or put aside without endangering or hurting their general good behavior.
When the three days’ festival ended, dear old Wanda resolutely imposed heavy penances and tasks on the whole, to ensure their remembering her well.——